


Understanding Epimetheus

by helsinkibaby



Category: CSI
Genre: Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-20
Updated: 2003-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-18 18:05:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warrick knows his Greek mythology</p>
            </blockquote>





	Understanding Epimetheus

**Author's Note:**

> "High and Low" post ep.

Warrick's not sure what wakes him at first, but he knows what keeps him awake; the absence of a body beside his, made clear to him when he throws an arm across her side of the bed, intending to pull her closer, but encountering only empty space. He's surprised that she's not there, and when he wakes up fully, he's surprised that he's surprised; because it's not so long ago that sharing a bed with her was a novelty. He doesn't know when he got so used to it, when what was once the other side of the bed now labelled in his thoughts as "her side".

But when he sees her, all thoughts of sleep are banished.

She's standing at his bedroom window, staring out through a crack in the blinds, and for the first time in what seems like days, she is completely and utterly still. She's been on edge, jittery, all week, ever since Grissom imposed regular hours on her, told her that she'd maxed out on overtime. At first, Warrick welcomed it, thinking that they'd finally get to enjoy some down time together, but it turned out that taking Sara Sidle out of the field made her less relaxed, not more, and wandering around the labs as she is, she's giving new meaning to the words "fish out of water."

This is as still as he's seen her in days, perhaps ever, with her arms wrapped around herself, his shirt hanging loosely from her slender frame. He can just about make out her profile, pensive, thoughtful, and a shiver runs over him that has nothing to do with cold, and nothing to do with the usual thoughts that he has when he sees her in his shirt and nothing else.

He's not sure that anything good can come out of that look.

He hears his own voice breaking the silence of the room, sees her jump slightly at the sound. "What are you doing over there?" he asks, and he's surprised at the teasing lilt to his voice, surprised at how normal he sounds.

She turns, smiles at him, but there's no real warmth there. "Couldn't sleep," she says simply, and he can't help the path that his eyes take, down the front of the shirt, noting just how few of the buttons are done up. His mind takes a path that he's not so sure she wants it to go down, not with that false smile, that uncertain look in her eyes, and he pushes himself up on one elbow, attempting a reassuring smile.

"I could've helped with that," he tells her, and she grins, but only for a moment. Then she looks down at the ground, her face serious again, and she stops a sigh in mid-heave. He barely holds back a sigh of his own, and he knows he can't avoid the question any more. "You want to tell me what's wrong?"

He's as gentle as he can be when he's asking the question, but she still looks up in alarm. "Wrong?" she echoes, an almost comical expression on her face. "Nothing's wrong."

Except that he knows that's not true, and the lie makes a smile come to his face. "Come over here," he says, holding out a hand to her, and she hesitates, her lower lip disappearing as she chews it nervously, and he beckons to her with his extended hand. "C'mere… it's ok… "

It seems to take an eternity, but eventually she moves, takes his hand in hers and sits down on the bed beside him, facing him, her legs pulled up underneath her. Their joined hands are the only parts of their bodies that touch, and while it's not as much as he wants, he knows it's as much as he can hope for.

They sit there like that, his thumb sweeping patterns across the back of her hand, and he waits for her to speak.

"I talked to Catherine," she says finally, and he's not sure why that's a big deal. They both talk to Catherine several times a day; he talked to her himself before he left the lab that morning. "Told her about being stuck in the lab." She pauses, he waits, knowing the story's not finished yet. "She couldn't see what the problem was… told me it was regular hours… suggested things I could do…" Another pause, and then it comes. "She said I should see my boyfriend… Hank."

The name is the verbal equivalent of a bucket of cold water, but Warrick doesn't let that show. "I see," is all he says, and her eyes narrow, meeting and holding his.

"Do you?" she asks. "The whole lab thinks that Hank and I are involved… I mean, we see one another, we spend time together, but he's not my boyfriend."

"No," Warrick agrees, because Sara's not the kind of girl to have two men on the go at once. He knows that she and Hank are just friends.

He's just not sure what they are.

"Which got me thinking about us," Sara continues, shaking her head. "We get dinner together… spend time together… sleep together… and no-one knows because we're keeping it secret. Which was never a problem when it happened once in a blue moon…"

"But now that it's happening more often, you're wondering what it means," Warrick guesses, and it's not an unreasonable assumption. After all, he's been doing the same thing.

"Aren't you?" she demands, and he nods slowly.

"I've thought about it," he admits, but that's all he admits.

"And?"

His thumb is still making patterns on her hand, and it's his turn to hold her gaze for a long time before he replies. "And I've got to tell you Sara," he breathes, knowing that this could make or break them, and he's terrified suddenly that it's going to be the latter. "I like being with you. I don't want to not be with you." The words lie heavy between them, and she's chewing her lower lip again.

He's preparing himself for rejection, for flight, so her next words make him blink, and he has to run them through his head more than once before he can really internalise them. "I don't want not to be with you either," she says quietly, but she sounds more uncertain than he's ever heard her.

"But?" he asks, adding off her surprised look, "I'm not deaf Sara… I heard that 'but' coming."

She closes her eyes, swallows hard. "But what if that's not enough?" she whispers. "What if there's problems at work, people talking, people looking at us… what if we end up fighting, comprising a case? What if we don't work out, and end up hating one another?" The words, once started, escape in a rush that some little part of his brain marks as most uncharacteristic for Sara, and he puts it down to a measure of firstly how scared she is, and second how much she must trust him to actually open up to him like that. "I said I don't want to not be with you Warrick, and I meant it," she finishes. "But all I can think of is that we've opened Pandora's Box, and what if we can't shut it again?"

He knows she's not expecting him to smile, but that's what he does, and he sees the confusion flash across her face. "That's the second mention of Greek mythology this morning," he tells her, and her face clears.

"The three Furies," she murmurs, because he'd told her all about it as he'd cooked breakfast for them.

"Alecto, Magaera and Tisiphone." He names them now, just because he can, and she rolls her eyes.

"You and your Greek mythology," she chides, shaking her head, because she's one of the few people who know that it's something of a passion of his. That's how he knew what Fred Dacks's tattoo stood for, it's how he was able to make a classical reference a few weeks back, telling Grissom that Greek pugilists used a metal glove when boxing. It stems from his college days, when a girlfriend of his was doing her thesis on Ancient Greece and he'd listened to her talk about it, occasionally quizzing her for class. He'd acquired quite a taste of Greek history along the way, and when he'd lost the girl, the interest had stuck around.

"You know," he tells her now, ignoring her teasing. "You're only thinking of half the story."

She blinks, frowns, shakes her head. "I don't understand."

"Pandora's Box," he tells her, sitting up properly, scooting closer to her on the bed, never losing touch of her hand. "You see, when Prometheus stole fire from Zeus, and gave it to humankind, not only did Zeus punish Prometheus, he also decided to punish humanity. He got Hephaistus to create a woman from clay … the most beautiful woman in the world…" She smiles then, a real smile, and he's not sure if it's because of the phrase or because while he speaks, his free hand isn't idle, reaching out to trace a path from the top of her head down her cheek and lower, going to the buttons of the shirt, undoing them without ever taking his eyes from hers. "She was sent, bearing a jar, to Prometheus's brother, Epimetheus."

She nods, and he notices the shiver that courses through her as he slides her shirt from her shoulders, exposing her to his gaze. He lets go of her hand only as long as it takes to remove the shirt totally, to fling it to the floor, then reclaims it, his other hand now going to her waist, pulling her towards him. "That was Pandora's Box, right?" she asks, her voice husky, her eyes dark.

"When Epimetheus accepted Pandora, against the warnings of Prometheus, she opened her jar, unleashing evil and sickness on the world." He pauses, runs a hand up her back and around her neck to cup her face. "That's the part that most people remember. They forget what was left inside the box."

Just as he'd done earlier, his thumb sweeps up and down her cheek, and her eyes flutter shut for a moment, and to his practised eye, it looks like it takes considerable effort on her part to open them, to look in his eyes and echo his words, "What was left?"

He lets go of her hand then, moving both of his to cup her face. "Hope," he says, and he lets the word hang between them, lets the knowledge seep into her bones, doesn't speak until he sees a flame lighting her eyes.

"Hope," she echoes, and he nods, pressing his lips to hers. It's a brief kiss, a kiss of promise, of reassurance - of hope.

"A sign that mankind shouldn't despair, shouldn't worry," he adds, his hands resting on the smooth skin of her back. "I don't want to worry about what might happen down the line Sara," he says. "I just want you."

Her hands rest on his chest, but she doesn't speak. She is silent, completely and utterly still, her face inscrutable. He's almost afraid to breathe, then she shifts slightly, moving so that she's straddling him, at the same time leaning forward and bringing her lips to his, all in one smooth motion. Unlike their kiss of seconds earlier, there is nothing brief about this one; it's fire and heat and passion, her mouth opening to him, body moving against him, over him, and he loses himself in the kiss, in her, lets the fire consume them both, consume them whole.

The one thought he allows himself before all semblance of thought is eradicated is that this is the reason that Epimetheus accepted Pandora, in spite of all the warnings from Prometheus.

And when Sara is in his arms like this, he completely understands.


End file.
